Please
by Dala1
Summary: "I never dreamed you could taste so sweet . . . I never wanted to be so weak . . . I never thought it would end so quickly." (HP/DM, dark)


Title: Please  
Author: Dala  
Rating: R for discussion of non-consensual sex, language  
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy (yes, that means slash. Turn back now if you wish.)  
Archive: Ask and it's yours  
Feedback: Pretty please? With a cherry and extra chocolate on top?  
Dedication: To Megan, just because :) Look, it's not fluffy!  
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to J.K. Rowling and Co. I'm not making any money off this, blahblahblah. The song lyrics at the end belong to U2.  
  
  
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I never thought you were the Boy Who Lived.  
  
In the robe shop, before our first year, I had no idea that your name was Harry Potter. All I knew was that you were someone new, someone interesting, and someone who might be an ally. I was afraid, you see. All my life I'd been surrounded by people who were required to think highly of me because of Who I Was, and suddenly I was going to be thrust into a place where, as my father constantly reminded, they wouldn't give a damn about me. "You can't trust that Dumbledore," he warned me on the day I left. "Never forget, Draco, he may seem like a harmless and kindly old man, but he is a dangerous creature and he wants to destroy everything we've worked so hard for in this life." I had nodded like I understood and resolved to carry a childish hatred for the headmaster. I still believed in the power of my father's words back then.  
  
When I talked with you, I held onto my old patterns of making new friends: impressing you with my wealth and status. After all, these things were what impressed my father's friends; they had impressed everyone I'd met up till that point, so how was I to know you were so different?  
  
After that it became a struggle of pride and power. Things just snowballed until we were mortal enemies locked in juvenile combat, currying favor with professors and getting each other in trouble, keeping an invisible score. You probably wondered why it had to be that way, but understand that I wondered the same thing.  
  
I never thought I could be alone with you and not despise every hair on your perfect, blessed head.  
  
But I was, once, in our sixth year. I'm sure you remember it as well as I do. Snape had for once doled out our punishments equally and we were stuck taking an inventory of boring items in a closet, supposedly magic but unresponsive no matter how many spells we cast on them. It became a competition and then just a game; you would think of one and I'd think of one, and we'd take turns trying to get the Whistling Yourkberries to actually whistle. It hit me like the lightning bolt above your brow -- you were clever and fun and, gods curse you, attractive.  
  
And in that moment I dropped my wand, and you did too, and we drew closer until I was wrapped in your warm, clean scent. I wanted to move, I wanted so badly to throw my arms around you and kiss your lips, but it was you who tentatively kissed me. Looking back on it now, I suppose it had to be you.  
  
I never dreamed you could taste so sweet.  
  
When we left the closet ten minutes later, we were both flushed and confused. You lit out for the Gryffindor rooms, I for Slytherin, and we managed to avoid each other for a good month. I stopped making cracks at Weasley and Granger because I was afraid of what I'd see in those brilliant green eyes if I caught your attention. Yet for all our efforts, we knew we would get drawn into that vortex of impossibility once again. The Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match allowed me to drink my fill of you with impunity, because the Hufflepuff Seeker was a sorry third-year and no one paid him a bit of attention; they were all looking at you. Did you know that? They were always looking at you. I don't see how you could rocket past all the other players and not be aware of the hundreds of pairs of eyes focused on you.  
  
Mine, I daresay, were the most intent. I arrived late so that I might take a seat away from my rowdy Housemates. I took in the line from your shoulders to your hips (you didn't have an athletic build until you were playing), the grip of your hand on the broomstick, the fierce concentration on your face. You didn't see me, but I didn't care. It was enough to watch you fly.   
  
I guess our Quidditch teams had gone too long without incident. I didn't quite grasp exactly how the path of the Bludger was altered so quickly, but it was slung into a Hufflepuff's stomach, just in front of you. She was thrown backward and you took the brunt of the Bludger's force, falling, falling, falling to the sound of many indrawn breaths.  
  
I never thought fear could strike me so quickly or so strongly.  
  
The fear of my father's beatings never hit me like that. His blows came without warning; sometimes I wasn't even aware I had provoked him. No, this fear was new, all-encompassing, and it came me with a dizzying power. I wanted to rush the field, run to your side, but the crowd was packed too tightly and before long I came to my senses. For the rest of the day I paced inside my head. Gradually I noticed how every action I took, every expression on my face, every word from my mouth was empty. It was all a long, tiresome charade. I wanted to get rid of my Slytherin companions; I wanted to be near you. I wanted to drop the Malfoy façade in your presence.  
  
Four days, two hours -- that's how much time passed before I saw you again. Did you know I was so good with numbers? I've always had an accurate internal clock. You passed me in the hallway, your eyes met mine and then flickered away. What was it I saw in them? Shame? Guilt? Desire? Pain? Apathy? I didn't know but I wanted to, so I followed you out to the owlery. You murmured to that pretty white Hedwig of yours. I know now that the letter you gave her was borne to Sirius Black. The secrets you kept for so long still have the power to amaze me.   
  
At some point you became aware of me, because you veered off the path to the school and into a clump of foliage near the lake. It was quite secluded. I looked around nervously before I followed you in. We had no words, only heat and hungry mouths and groping hands. I wanted you so badly it was a taste in the back of my mouth, bright and metallic, like blood. I was so overcome by my fervent need, so terribly overcome . . . I want you to understand something.  
  
I never meant to fuck you like that.  
  
Swear on my mother's grave -- on *your* mother's grave -- I didn't. I had entertained thoughts about it while you were laid up and it was all in my head with roses and satin sheets, moonlight and candles and soft laughter as we discovered each other. But in reality it was about the heat of late afternoon, your face pressed into the dirt, your tense and trembling body, you begging me please, don't, you weren't ready, I was hurting you, please . . . Please, for the love of a God I want to have faith in, believe when I say I wanted to stop. In some recess of my mind I was rocking back and forth, gibbering, sharing in your fear and your pain. But some unnamable force had taken me over and I . . . well, you were there, you remember. When it was over I tried to put my arms around you but all your muscles were rigid. The sense of what I had done hit me then: I had hit you, I had hurt you, I had raped you. I started to cry, great gulping sobs that surprised me as much as they surprised you.  
  
And you, my sweet lover, turned around and held me close. You dried my tears, you kissed the corners of my eyes, you turned my face to your shoulder and stroked the back of my neck. The irony does not escape me. The fault was mine, the pain was yours: I should have been the one to comfort you.  
  
I never wanted to be so weak.  
  
When I told you this, my voice breaking like a little girl's (or so my father would say), you said it was all right. I told you I was sorry, many times -- you had to break into my frantic repetition of the phrase. You forgave me, you said.   
  
The sky opened, the sun shone, the waters of bliss crashed over me in waves. All because you said it was all right. You were Harry Potter, you loved me, and you were never wrong.  
  
We spent the rest of the school year like that, in secret. I know you found it terrible, telling no one, but I thought it was exciting. Finally I had something that was just mine, something that no one -- especially Lucius Malfoy -- had control over. Most of the time we were happy, more suitable companions than either of us would have thought, but our rows . . . well, we were both strong-minded and stubborn. When we argued over even the silliest things, I felt like my world was splitting apart at the seams. My anger coupled with the sense of yours brought a red curtain over my eyes.   
  
I never thought I would actually strike you.  
  
After that first time, I had been a careful and considerate lover. Our bed (figuratively speaking, since we didn't dare meet in either of our bedrooms) was a comfortable one; for awhile you started at my touch, which was my own damn fault, but you managed to get past the violence of the first encounter. One evening, though, I channeled that man who had pushed you down onto your knees. I don't even remember what we were arguing about, but I got those blinders on my eyes until all I could see was rage and despair and . . . and I hit you.  
  
It wasn't a very hard blow; it landed a few centimeters to the left of your nose. As soon as I did it I froze inside. But you reacted like anyone with pride would react and you hit me back, in the mouth.  
  
The blood drifted away from my brain and I saw the horror that I felt mirrored in your eyes, horror at what we'd both done. I know now that I should have run, I should have ended it, turned and fled. But I saw myself reflected in your glasses, the two Dracos, one who kissed your lips and one who split them. I was so terribly afraid, Harry, so afraid that the good Draco would be lost if I didn't have you. And so I didn't leave.  
  
I don't know exactly what you were feeling because we didn't discuss it. At a mutual, unspoken decision we pulled each other into a tight embrace. I was shaking and so were you. The moon started to rise and as I held you tight, so tight I felt the indentations of your ribs on my arms, I thought that as long as we could stay just like this it would be all right.  
  
I never dreamed I could be so wrong.  
  
That was about a week before our exams, and we got through the last few days without any other incidents. The night before the train left we stole out of our rooms after Hogwarts had gone to bed, you in your Invisibility Cloak and me with nothing but experience. We created a warm little nest in the cluster of trees near the lake where we made love fiercely, with promises in the movements of our limbs, then curled together to watch the sun rise.  
  
Summer without you was torture, almost a physical pain just to be parted by the miles. I had made you swear not to write, because no matter how sneaky we were, I knew my father would found out somehow. He's just that kind of man. I never noticed how cold Malfoy Manor was and I spent hours in bed, trying to find your warmth in piles of blankets and pints of butterbeer. The awful event that is forever scorched on my memory took place in late July. My father told me one morning at breakfast that we were going to take a surprise holiday. Suspicious, I asked him where and he told me to shut my face. The journey was long, the procedure was painful, but I stayed mute through it all. I thought of you and I wanted to defy them, but I wasn't strong enough. Maybe if you were by my side, I would have been.  
  
At the start of our seventh year, seeing you again was like quenching some primal thirst. I couldn't speak to you in front of everyone else, but I fed on the sight of you and felt restored. We finally found some time alone on the second day and that was when I showed you the Mark. As I drew back my sleeve I winced, because every time I looked at it I felt disgusted and sick. But if you felt these things too you kept them hidden; your face showed nothing but compassion as you touched it gently. I asked you if it changed anything and you said, after thinking for a moment, that no, it didn't. And I loved you then as I never had before.  
  
I never thought it would end so quickly.  
  
It was November. We had been stargazing from the Astrology Tower when you broached that fatal topic. You wanted to stop hiding, or at least tell your friends.  
  
So it had come at last. The honeymoon was over and I knew it. I got up quickly and dressed while you watched me in confusion. I said no. You asked me why and I refused to answer. How could I explain it? I know you thought it was because I was ashamed of you, of what we had, but that wasn't it at all. I didn't care if the whole world knew . . . save for one man. And if anybody knew, it would get back to him somehow, I knew it would. Oh, Harry, I wanted so much to tell you that, but I couldn't put it into words.  
  
You were hurt now, and angry. You followed me down the winding stairs, harshly accusing me of being a coward. I knew you were right and it made me furious because I couldn't change. I could never change. We were maybe two stories from the bottom when I turned around so I could argue with you face to face. You said something about my father, how I couldn't hide under his shadow forever, and that was when I did it. I shoved you, hard, and it put you off balance, and you fell. You didn't make a sound but my heart leapt in panic; I grabbed for your robe, too late.   
  
I never thought you would strike the marble floor so hard.   
  
When I reached you, your legs and right arm were twisted at hideous angles, but it was the breaking of your neck that killed you. It had all been some horrible accident of fate, that you landed at such an angle. A few degrees either way and we would have been safe. You'd have a few broken bones, but Madam Pomfrey would fix you right up and you'd be my Harry again, whole and making me whole.  
  
I touched your still face with trembling hands. Oh God, what had I done, what the fuck had I *done*? I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to, but it happened and your glasses were smashed on the ground and you couldn't see my tears . . . Feeling numb, I kissed you one last time.  
  
I never thought your lips would be so cold.  
  
I left that night on my broom with a few possessions. Caught the earliest train in Hogsmeade, made my way to the place I had long ago stopped calling home. When the woman I had long ago stopped calling Mother refused to tell me where my father was, I plunged my fist into her stomach and then her cheekbone. I was as cold as your skin. Doubled over with fear clouding her eyes, she gave me a location in the Scottish moors and I set out.   
  
By then the story had come out. I suppose they put two and two together and pinned the murder on me, as well they should. It's a miracle that I managed to evade my pursuers. Part of me wanted to let them catch me. They would have sent me to Azkaban for sure. But that would take too long. I wanted to be rid of this torture quickly and brutally. I suppose I could have just killed myself, but you called me coward and you were right.  
  
I never thought he would take me back.   
  
In fact, I hoped he would kill me on the spot. But Voldemort looked into my eyes, smiled, and said, "Welcome home, my dear boy."  
  
The space at his right hand was empty.  
  
I never imagined I would sit there.  
  
But now I do.  
  
  
  
~so you never knew love until you crossed the line of grace   
and you never felt wanted till you had someone slap your face  
so you never felt alive until you almost wasted away  
  
and you never knew how low you'd stoop to make that call  
and you never knew what was on the grouod till they made you crawl  
and you never knew that the heaven you keep you stole~  
  
  
--U2, "Please"  
  
~~~~~~~~ 


End file.
